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Note to self: Never listen to Welcome to Night Vale while reading Batman Comics. You will get fic ideas and you will not be able to get rid of them.

I hope I didn’t make it seem like I was ripping off the podcast too much. Please enjoy. I may or may not write more and am very much open for ideas.

The radio spits and hiss static before a calm and soothing Voice echoes from the speakers.

“An angst filled city where the skyscrapers reach to the sky. The smog is thick. And where we all choke on the desperation of hopes and dreams while people in capes fly over us at night; Welcome to Gotham.”

A soft piano is played for several moments. It is both haunting and beautiful and for some reason you are reminded of your grandmother. Even though your grandmother never had a piano.

“Hello Listeners. I have been asked to start off this show with a message from the Gotham Community College Council. The message is the following:

‘You may have noticed that there is an out of place classroom in building 3E that has a door plaque that says ‘Art in real life’. If you see the classroom please do not enter it. The College Council is eight-four percent sure that it is a portal to another dimension and would like to remind everyone that accidently entering another dimension and not returning for several weeks is not a good reason for absences nor for missing any tests. So please, leave that classroom alone. The matter being investigated.’

And now for the news. The eight-car pile-up down by the GCPD has been cleared away. Commissioner Gordon has released a statement saying that no one was seriously harmed and the pile-up was with mostly parked cars with no one in them. GCPD has arrested the persons who caused the crash but has not released any details as to why the crash happened. Traffic in the area will now resume its normal, slug like pace in the coming hour.

A new vigilante has appeared on Gotham’s Cape Scene this month. Who is he and what does he want? Is he a vigilante? Or is he a rogue pretending to be a vigilante? He wears a red helmet that in certain lights looks like the head of a male genitalia and a very nice leather jacket. Unlike most of the Cape Scene in Gotham, this young man uses an excessive number of guns and bullets and has a habit of killing people. So far, the young man in question has taken out several drug rings and has made himself the Crime Overlord of Crime Alley.

A rather strange goal if you ask me. But hey, whatever floats your boat Mr. Overlord. Whatever floats your boat.  There has been no word on the street as of yet if or when Batman will have his confrontation with the young man, that sources say is called The Red Hood, but keep your eyes peeled and be prepared to duck and cover if you see either of them! No one likes to be hit by a stray Batarang after all. Or a bullet for that matter.

In more exciting news, The Riddler was defeated today by an eight-year-old girl named Suzie. Little Suzie is an avid fan of puns, riddles and crossword puzzles and was one of the many school children who were taken hostage at the museum yesterday while on a school field trip. Before any of the Bats managed to even break into the building, little Suzie not only completed all of the puzzles that The Riddler had left, she also threw a several thousand-dollar statue at the rogue’s head, knocking him out.

Nightwing spent at least five minutes crying with laughter at the sight of little Suzie standing over The Riddler’s unconscious body in triumph. Robin was the one who had to cuff The Riddler seeing as Nightwing was incapacitated by his own laughter. Bruce Wayne, the owner of the statue used to knock out The Riddler, has congratulated Suzie on her puzzle solving skills and good aim. The billionaire has replaced the statue with another one from his collection and has not asked for payment from anyone for the destruction of the last one. What a great guy.

Let’s have a moment to talk about safety for a moment. In the last few weeks there have been many sightings of what appears to be Ninjas. But since they look very obvious and Ninja like, this presenter is slightly hesitant to call them that. I mean, what kind of Ninja advertises that they are a Ninja? I thought the whole idea of being a Ninja was to not be seen or noticed?

Anyway. Safety. It is not a good not safe idea to heckle, curse out or attack these strange Ninja people. They have been proven to be armed and dangerous and are more than willing to leave you upside down on a light post if you annoy them. So far there have been no deaths from these strange Ninjas but it would be best to avoid them just in case.

And now, the weather:”

Instead of the weather you hear a song about waiting for a bus in the rain. You are extremely confused and have a very bad feeling that this song is going to be stuck in your head for the rest of the week.

“Welcome back listeners.

One of the newest trends for the Gotham Twitter threads has been ‘I’mtellingbatman’. And it has been a hit. While it is completely unfounded whether or not Batman actually reads these tweets, they are extremely funny and amusing to read. For instance, this one is from R33ne_Moyt who said: Nightwing has been sitting on my roof petting my cat for the last 10min. plz give her back. #i’mtellingbatman. #ineedtofeedher.  And here is another one from 59oiler that said: Robin fell asleep eating a chilidog and is now covered in it XD. #i’mtellingbatman #plzletthisboysleep.

I have to say, if you have twitter and the time I would suggest you check it out. It will surely brighten your day.

Gotham City Mayoral Council has released a new statement today about the upcoming election. The Statement released explains that the new laws saying that you cannot run for mayor if you have committed serious offences or have been a part of any major gang such as Black Mask’s or Joker’s is in no way discriminatory. It is rather a precaution to ensure that they person whom is chosen for Mayor is not a figure head for any gang leader or rogue or that they are no planning to take over the city and rule as a dictator. Gotham City has strict laws on dictatorship and with having certified insane people ruling and or governing the city.

Our time is coming to an end listeners. Coming up next is the relaxing hour of sweet and soft songs from the local worshipers of the Green. Thank you, listeners. And Goodnight.”

The Voice is gone. And all that is left is static once more. You are left wondering how you came across this station in the first place.

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“How much farther?” Fingon called into the wind. “How much farther can you bear us?”

The eagle’s cruel, hooked beak did not move, but his great voice echoed in the minds of those that huddled upon his back.

“I am Thorondor, Lord of Eagles. My wing beats are the crack of mountain thunder and when I stoop to kill it is the strike of lightning. My wings span thirty fathoms and my strength is the strength of the rising storm. I can carry you as far as is needful.”

“Thirty fathoms exactly?” said Fingon. “And how much do you weigh?”

Thorondor blinked his golden eyes. “What?”

“We’ve been doing some calculations back here,” Fingon said, oblivious to his confusion. “The average harpy eagle has a wingspan of about a fathom and can carry its own body weight - say twenty pounds - for short distances. If we were to extrapolate your weight and scale linearly, you’d be able to carry our combined weight with ease.”

“But the matter is vastly more complicated than linear scaling,” croaked his cousin. “Based on wingspan and weight, an unladen eagle would induce a velocity change on air of almost eight miles an hour - forgive the approximation, I don’t have parchment or sufficient blood - and would require a tremendous amount of energy.” 

“Factoring in the additional weight of two adult Eldar-“

“-plus armour but sans several litres of blood-”

“-the energy requirements would be ludicrous. And that’s without getting into the tensile strength of muscle, bone, etcetera.”

“You understand,” said Thorondor slowly, “That I am a maia of Manwë, cloaked only in the seeming of an eagle?” He was remembering again why, Oaths and murders aside, he found the Noldor such a thoroughly disagreeable people. 

“Well yes,” said Fingon the Valiant. “But that’s no excuse for the crafting of a shoddy fana.”

“O Heirs of Finwë,” said Thorondor. “Behold! For we have found precisely how far I can carry you and it has nothing at all to do with the power of my wings and everything to do with the limits of my patience.” He folded his wings and dived towards the mushroom patch of tents that marked the Noldor’s camps upon Lake Mithrim’s shore, his passengers clutching tightly at his feathers and at each other.  

They landed in a hurricane rush of wind that tore several tents from their moorings, and the raking of great claws that tore great furrows in the brown earth of the lake’s shore. 

”Right,” said the Lord of Eagles, turning his head to peer at the elves upon his back. “Fuck off.”
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(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)

Obito gets lost on the way back to the afterlife.

It sounds like the start of the worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive, because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves you alive even when you don’t want to be.

The worst part is, Obito can’t even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against Kaguya. Without it—

Without it he’s dead, and Obito doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.

Cursing quietly, Obito pushes through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way, or just use a kunai, but—

Obito is a stubborn bastard. He was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no one can take that away from him.

The forest thins out up ahead, the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

He rounds a thick stand of trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of his Mokuton, and hears—

War. War like the one he just left, the one he started, but without the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a loud cry.

A familiar cry.

Obito reacts without even thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of yellow light.

Years of learning how to craft a plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible. Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center. A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t be fast enough.

But Obito has faced a man who’s even faster, and he can make it in time.

It’s nothing conscious that drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge, another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor, just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.

A sword collides with it in a flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.

Obito snarls, in no mood to call for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.

Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his mouth.

Obito sweeps his feet out from under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough revenge?!”

There’s no answer, only blank gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this before it starts, Obito will take it.

“Stay there,” he growls at Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him, grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.

Those in Obito’s path don’t have nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close to grief, and he’s had enough.

With a shout, Madara shoves Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in an automatic sweep.

Obito, barely three yards away with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a wolf’s grin.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

Hashirama must see something in Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and spinning the staff through his fingers.

Madara feints left, but this is man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way, catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow, drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and drags him down to the ground.

From above and behind him, there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes wide, and Obito snorts.

“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to Madara and back.

Hashirama stares at him for a long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”

Madara makes a sound like a pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him. “You’re an Uchiha.”

“And that fact has been responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain that might come.

Hashirama must see something of that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please, don’t!” he insists.

“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”

“Clearly it is a Senju matter as well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.

“I don’t think so,” Izuna counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from an Uchiha kunoichi—”

Instantly Tobirama whips around, offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.

“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.

“Izuna,” Hashirama says, carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”

Izuna flicks a glance between Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,” he complains.

Madara gives Obito a dark look, but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan, Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”

Narrowing his eyes, Obito presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”

Red-and-black eyes go wide, and Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.

Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—

Big hands grab him, one arm around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles around him. “No,” Hashirama says, halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s lungs.

Obito freezes, stiff and stunned at the touch of another human. Years, it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.

There isn’t one, though. No hit, no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.

No pain, just—

A trickle, wet and hot, against the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.

It’s too much. The thought of it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it begins, and Hashirama is the one to save him—

What Obito did, the people he killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.

Obito is responsible for his own actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to mean he bears at least a part of the blame from the hell of the past few years.

“No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt the man (again, again, something in him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves whatever I do to him!”

Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh, but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”

Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his life.

He opens his hand and lets the weapon go.

This is fantastic and beautiful and just guhh. Obito going for Madara, and almost incidentally saving Izuna along the way - Izuna, who was the trigger that was almost single-handedly responsible for Madara’s later actions. Obito, who doesn’t give a damn about who’s Uchiha or Senju and is almost casually curb-stomping them both equally as he lunges for Madara’s throat - *sniffs happily*. This is lovely.

I especially love all the speculation about Obito’s background! This must be the darkest fears (or the secret hopes) of both sides; an individual wielding both the sharingan AND motokun. Who does not hesitate to bitch both sides out (though I think he hates the Uchiha a lot more then he does the Senju - eh. Apples and oranges). The speculation that he’s a child of rape, that’s - well, completely plausible within the clan’s working framework of the situation. Add in the way that he went straight for Madara - the obvious conclusion is that he’s perhaps taking out a very personal grudge on Madara in his capacity as head of the Uchiha clan, and thus nominally responsible for his entire clan and their actions. (…the age difference isn’t plausible for the other reason a Senju/Uchiha hybrid might be going for an Uchiha).

…all I can think of is that one story of yours where Obito was the child of a Senju and Uchiha marriage. I can just see him going “It was my father who was the Uchiha, actually. And my mother was the Senju.” And just as both clans start drawing some horrifying conclusions, he casually adds - “Also, they were married.” (THAT would set the cat among the pigeons)


May. 26th, 2017 04:39 am
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The HP/OP crossover that no one asked for. (Otherwise known as I’m clearing out my notes so have some pre-written stuff to read while I’m on break)

“You want to make a deal?” 

Harry stares at this strange man, the first to ever find his island, the first capable of reaching the shores of his home. 

The man who is slowly making his way into the clutches of Harry’s dear friend, his servant and companion. 

“If I come three years early, give me three minutes in the future!” 

“Only three minutes? Whatever for?” 

He’s interesting, this man. He’s got a kind of charisma that showcases nothing but open honesty. 

He’s the kind of man Harry might have willingly followed in his mortal life. 


There’s no impact. 

Ace is braced for it, he’s looking his startled little brother in the eye. 

Keep reading
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Discworld x Tolkien crossover where Vimes arrests the One Ring for being an accessory to murder

Not mine, but an all-time favorite:

By: CamwynSummary: Maedhros and Maglor sneak into Eonwe’s camp at the end of the War of Wrath- but the Silmarils are missing. A Silm Discworld crossover!

@elenothar @urloth @greenekangaroo
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OH GOOD LORD, SOMEONE WRITE THIS. Secretly Married Obi-Wan is killing me. Like, Obi-Wan keeps meaning to say something, keeps meaning to resign from the order so that he can go BE WITH HIS WIFE but…he doesn’t want to set a bad example or anything and this KID is here now and…well, he’ll figure it out later. Attachments are forbidden, Anakin! Hang on, I have to go…to Mandalore…for reasons. I’ll be right back! Politicians are not to be trusted byeeeeee!

Satine is going to be so epically annoyed with him for dragging his feet on this. ARE YOU ASHAMED OF ME, OBI-WAN KENOBI?! WELL THEN MAYBE YOU’LL ENJOY SLEEPING ON THE COUCH. *throws a martini into the wall*

Can you even IMAGINE Anakin’s face when he learns this Important Information? Oh my God. 
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Can I put forwards a petition for Graves’ animagus form to be a black smoke Norwegian forest cat? I mean.

Majestic as fuck.

100% done with your shit.

Bitching black and silver colour scheme and a boss coat.

Fanged death machine that strikes terror into the hearts of prey dark wizards and manages to look hella fine while doing so

paint me like one of your french girls

So I can’t stop thinking about this post. ><

Since I’m terrible at contributing to headcanons, I can only offer this humble (and unfinished) drabble:

There was a black cat sitting primly beside the entrance of the Woolworth building when Newt headed out that drizzly gray Friday evening.

It watched him with a piercing golden gaze as he exited, seemingly unaffected by the chilly bite of the night air and the smattering of rain that struck it periodically when the wind changed directions. Contrary to its regal demeanour however, the cat was a sorry sight physically, bedraggled fur dotted with splatters of mud and patches of missing fur.

“Oh,” Newt murmured quietly, careful not to startle the feline, “hello there.”

He carefully knelt down when the cat did not immediately react and slowly extended his palm out. Newt lowered his gaze and waited patiently, alert for any sounds from his feline companion. After several minutes of inactivity, he considered lowering his hand, having decided that the lack of response was likely an indicator of disinterest.

Just as he was about to do so, Pickett peeked out from his pocket and made a small inquisitive noise.

Newt heard, more than saw, the cat flinch.

He lifted his gaze high enough to stare at the cat’s chest and said softly, “don’t be alarmed, I promise that Pickett is very friendly.”

Newt smiled slightly when the cat got up onto four paws and padded closer, but kept his gaze low until it tentatively reached his still outstretched hand. To his surprise, instead of sniffing at his hand, the cat padded right past and straight up to Newt where it sat down again.

When Newt got over his surprise and took a proper look at the feline, he noticed that it appeared to be glaring at Pickett.

For a scruffy stray, it seemed surprisingly fierce, and Newt absolutely did not blame Pickett when the Bowtruckle quavered under the cat’s watchful gaze and shrank back into Newt’s pocket.

Apparently unsatisfied, the cat made to move closer, boldly placing its paws onto Newt’s thighs, intent on climbing its way up.

“Oh,” said Newt, thoroughly taken aback, “I’m afraid I can’t let you scare poor Pickett.”

An irritated chitter came from his pocket and Newt winced apologetically. “Quite right Pickett.”

He smiled ruefully down at the black cat. “Excuse my poor wording just now, Pickett is definitely not afraid, he’s just trying to give you space.”

He suppressed a wider smile when the cat sat back on its haunches and made a huffing snort.

This close, Newt can see the stray was not only dirty, but severely underfed. The girth he had assumed to be a healthy amount of weight turned out to be nothing more than knotted, but still fluffy, fur.

Newt’s heart clenched.

He offered his hand out to the feline again, fervently wanting to scoop the poor thing into his arms but unwilling to intrude upon its space without proper permission.

When the cat continued to simply watch him with a narrow-eyed gaze, Newt found himself speaking again. “My name is Newt Scamander,” he said, “and I would very much like to treat you to dinner.”

For another tense moment, the cat simply sat there and Newt had the impression that the feline was thinking, weighing Newt’s worth with its golden gaze.

Abruptly, it got onto its paws again. Stepping closer, the stray sniffed delicately at his index finger before pushing its head against his hand briefly. Newt ducked his head to hide a pleased smile and allowed himself to inch closer, keeping his movements deliberately slow so the cat can move away if necessary.

It didn’t, though it did tense again when Newt carefully ran his hand down its back.

“You’re absolutely lovely,” Newt told it quietly, “won’t you come home with me tonight?”

The cat gave him another considering look, then, strangely enough, it turned away to stare intensely at the entrance of the Woolworth building.

Newt followed its gaze. He frowned, and moved closer to the door closest to him. There appeared to be scratch marks on the wooden panelling, as if-

He looked down and met the cat’s intelligent gaze. “Were you-” he stopped himself and rephrased his question, “do you want to go inside?”

Newt’s eyes widened when the cat nodded.

He stared down at it.

The cat gave an impatient huff when several seconds passed and Newt had not moved. Startled into action, Newt stood up and took a step back, suddenly all too aware of the events of the past few days and the entirely unpleasant events with Grindelwald. He discreetly felt for his wand and tried to quiet his heart as it began to pound anxiously in his chest.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you in,” he told the cat, trying to sound firm.

Instead of lashing out or transforming into a Dark Wizard or a million other scenarios Newt’s suspicious mind conjured up, the cat merely looked begrudgingly resigned. It seemed to shrink into itself and made no move to approach Newt.

After a beat, the cat turned away and slunk back to its original spot by the entrance. Only, instead of sitting down, it moved closer to the door and curled into a small ball, heedless of the wet ground or the continued existence of the rain.

Newt watched helplessly from his spot.

After a minute, he bit his bottom lip and casted an Impervius Charm on the stray. Then, he forced himself to look away and Apparate back to his hotel.

He did the right thing, Newt told himself firmly as he went through his suitcase and fed all his creatures. There was something odd about the cat, and as much as Newt wanted to help, he can’t allow it entrance into the MACUSA headquarters without a better understanding of what it was.

Because there was no way it was a normal Muggle cat.

Still, Newt couldn’t help the pang in his chest when he came out of his case and noticed the rain had gotten stronger in the intervening time.

He hoped the charm would last the night.

Newt does not see the black cat the next morning.

He dithered by the Woolworth building entrance, under the pretense of purchasing and reading a Muggle newspaper. During this time, he saw countless Muggles, wizards and witches enter and exit but never once caught a glimpse of the stray from last night.

It seemed unlikely that anyone would have stopped to let the cat in.

Newt was familiar enough with Muggle laws to understand that strays are not usually tolerated in public spaces, and whilst he has not yet encountered an animal control officer or an animal shelter during his stay in New York. He had no doubt that they existed and, given his experiences with said institutions in the past, would likely be very unforgiving with the black cat’s life.

Perhaps it had snuck inside after someone?

Unlikely again, Newt concluded after some thought, if the cat simply wanted to sneak inside, it could easily have done so last night, when Newt exited the building. He was broken out of his thoughts when the Muggle newspaper purveyor cleared his throat pointedly. Realizing that he has easily stood outside of the entrance for more than fifteen minutes, Newt ducked his head and entered the building.

Once inside, Newt spent the next half an hour trying to track down either Tina or Queenie. There was something decidedly strange about the stray from the prior night, and he wanted to inform one of the Goldstein sisters if his suspicions are proven to be correct.

Eventually, he spied Queenie as she strode purposefully down one of the hallways and hurried to catch her. Queenie slowed when he approached and turned around with a pleased smile. “Good morning,” she greeted happily, seemingly unconcerned when Newt flashed her shoes a brief smile in response. She then said, with a small frown, “oh. That is indeed odd.”

Newt ducked his head, quietly glad that Queenie agreed with his assessment of last night’s events. “Yes, I thought so as well.” He briefly peered up at her thoughtful expression before looking back down and staring at her chin, trying to concentrate on visualizing the intensity of the cat’s gaze. “It seemed so intelligent.”

Queenie hummed in acquiescence before tugging Newt gently closer to her. “We should drop by and see if dear Tina has a moment to chat.”

Newt nodded and disentangled himself from her grip, which Queenie relinquished with a slightly apologetic grin. Instead, she began moving again, in the opposite direction this time, seemingly turning down corridors at random until at last, they turned right one last time and came across a harried looking Tina.

She was in discussion with several other Aurors, heads bent together conspiratorially and murmuring in soft voices.

As they drew closer however, Newt was able to catch snippets of their conversation and realized idly that they were discussing the search for their Director and, judging by the exhaustion on their faces, he concluded that they likely haven’t had any success.

Tina had noticed them by now, and carefully extricated herself out of the group, gesturing that she would be back. She moved to greet them with a small nod, smiling fondly at her sister before turning the same expression onto Newt.

She must have noticed something on his face because she immediately frowned. “Is everything alright Newt?”

“Oh, yes,” Newt said, then added uncertainly, “only I had the strangest encounter with a most fascinating creature last night.”

Tina tensed. “What was it? Wait, where is it now?” She questioned and glanced down quickly at his suitcase with a furrow in her brows which belied her unease at the thought of Newt acquiring yet another largely prohibited beast.

Newt shook his head and peered up at Tina’s chin. “It was a cat actually.”

She visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping with a relieved sigh. She must have caught sight of Newt’s slightly offended pout because she straightened again and inquired in a more collected voice. “A cat?”

“Yes, it was behaving in a decidedly strange manner,” affirmed Queenie from the side, “it seemed to understand Newt’s speech.”

Newt found himself nodding along with that description. “It was trying to get into the building,” he continued, “it had left visible scratches on the wooden panelling of the door but had likely stopped once it realized the futility of the action in its current form.”

“Current form,” Tina said, then trailed off, “you don’t suppose it could be an Animagus?”

Newt darted a look at her face, taking in the worried downturn of her lips with a small pang of regret. The aftermath of Grindelwald’s deception has not been easy on MACUSA, and having been re-instigated as an Auror, Tina has been running around along with the rest of the Department, trying to tie down loose ends around the city. The toll of the long work hours was visible in the dark circles under her eyes and they made her seem especially pale under the dim light of the hallways. 

“I’m afraid I can’t say for certain. It exhibited intelligence far beyond what is commonly attributable to the species, though it is unclear if this is simply an anomaly, an Animagus, a Transfiguration or something else. However,” he paused until Tina looked at him again, “it did not attack me when I refused to grant it entrance.”

“Oh,” said Queenie in a small voice when Newt thought of the last time he saw the stray, how it had curled its malnourished and dirty form into a tight ball against the door, as if that would be enough to keep out the chill. “Poor dear.”

Tina gave her sister a puzzled look but let the comment slide in favour of the more pressing issue. “Is the cat in your possession?”

Newt shook his head. “It, ah, did not seem interested in coming with me and I did not see it when I came in this morning.”

“Thank you for alerting us, though I’m not sure there is anything the Department can do for now,” Tina sighed and turned an apologetic look at Newt. “Grindelwald’s schemes have left us quite short handed. And between the restorations to the city, clean up within the Department and the search for Director Graves, I’m not certain the Madame President will be willing to spare any Auror to investigate into this, especially not with the new wards they’ve put up.”

“New wards?”

Tina nodded at Newt. “Not fully sure of the specifications myself, but I understand that new wards are able to detect the individual’s wands and are meant to deny entrance to those without a registered wand in good standing in the system.”

Newt mulled over the implications for a few seconds and nodded his head. “This would explain why it could not simply sneak in through the doors.”

“Yes,” agreed Tina. She twitched when one of the Aurors called her name and gave them a brief smile, reaching out to briefly touch Newt’s arm. “That’s my cue, there’s been rumours that Grindelwald kept a warehouse down by the docks for his,” she grimaced, “prisoners. Thank you for informing me, I’ll be sure to warn the others to keep an eye out.”

Newt smiled back and ducked his head. “I hope you find him soon.”

“Me too,” said Tina quietly.

The cat was back by the time Newt left the Woolworth building that night.

He stared at it from under the fringe of his bangs and was fiercely glad that the weather tonight was a significant improvement from the prior eve. He didn’t think he would have the heart to leave the poor thing again, even if it was a Dark Wizard in disguise.

Newt had spent the remainder of the day secluded within the confines of the library within the Woolworth building, pouring over what little information there was on Animagus transformations, Transfigurations and potential spells to detect magical deceptions. He had intended to leave around ten, only Newt had found a particularly detailed dissertation on the transference of physical attributes to the Animagus form and gotten lost in the discussion, and by the time he finished, it was close to midnight.

Newt watched the cat.

It was sitting by the doors again and had perked up briefly when Newt stepped through, but upon recognizing Newt, it made a huffing sound and flicked its tail once.

Newt swallowed, and turned so he was facing the feline properly.

It stared back at him.

“Good evening,” Newt said carefully and palmed his wand in what he thought was a discreet manner. He bit the inside of his cheek when the cat immediately tensed and stared at where his hand was gripping his wand inside his jacket.

Definitely not a normal cat.

Newt observed its sudden wariness and made a split decision, unable to bring himself to cast anything on the creature without provocation. He loosened his grip on his wand and slowly withdrew his hand, watching as the cat fully relaxed once his hand was completely out of his pocket.

“You’re not just a cat, are you?” Newt asked.

The black cat swished its tail once, and Newt got the distinct impression that it was very unimpressed with his deductions. Regardless, after a moment’s hesitation, it shook its head.

Newt suppressed the instinctive sense of apprehension that flared bright in his mind, aware again of his current isolation and the lateness of the hour. He forcibly told himself to take a deep breath and continued. “You can understand me.”

This time, there was no hesitation. The cat nodded.

“Are you,” Newt began then stopped. He rethought his plan and instead said, “will you trust me?”

This seemed to give the cat pause, because it made a low growl in the back of its throat and tensed again.

Pickett stirred in Newt’s shirt pocket and made an inquisitive noise. Newt reached up to place a comforting hand over his pocket, offering silent reassurance to the Bowtruckle. He knelt down slowly and reached out his hand again, a reenactment of his actions from the prior night. “Will you trust me?”

The cat watched him with its golden gaze and Newt forced himself to meet its eyes. Now that he was certain this was not an actual Muggle cat, he was no longer worried that it would interpret his direct gaze as a challenge.


Newt held his breath as the cat slowly padded up to his proffered hand. It does not rub its head against his hand again, instead, it simply placed a paw in his hand.

Newt smiled.

“I’m going to cast a few spells on you,” he told it quietly, and does not wince when it responded by digging its claws pointedly into his palm. “You need to trust me.”

It huffed at him and flicked its tail against his hand, but it does not react when Newt reached into his pocket for his wand again.

“Revelio,” Newt said.

Nothing, not a simple Transformation spell then.

“Finite Incantatem,” he tried.

Again, nothing.

Newt frowned down at the cat. “Reparifarge.”

The cat huffed.

That only left one other option, the spell to force Animagus to transform back into human form. Newt steeled himself for a confrontation and casted the Homorphous Charm.

A bright blue and white glow settled over the cat’s form and Newt gasped. He gripped his wand tighter and readied himself for a fight. Only, the light quickly faded away and left a distinctly grumpy looking feline.

The cat hissed at him and lifted its paw from his palm with the wounded dignity of the deeply offended.

“What,” said Newt then winced when the cat gave him a particularly spiteful scratch. He stared down at it and said faintly, “well then, I suppose we might as well as get dinner.”

It scowled at him.

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“Your tapestries are so fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess Athena.”

Arachne tosses her head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall, “What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanches and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy. Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for her wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled hands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid, but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes and declares, “Athena should thank me, since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her and keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the crowd.

They will tell tales of her hubris. They will all be true.


The next day she bumps into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place, mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she says coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as a virtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers her to a weaving contest. She accepts.


Gods are not so hard to find, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” the baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking money from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag of sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders, “Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the first dozen times.

“Thank you for your help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She grows hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to overwhelm her.

But Arachne does not believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales will be true.

She ties a scarf around her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and begins her slow ascent.


The muscles in her legs and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body and drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her head and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts his head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” she repeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, looking at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweet bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are big enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaver Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”


They tell tales of Hephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad, angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face, and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire, replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?” he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a coughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, and doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up at the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to awful lot of trouble to find me, girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack off her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have woven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales of her hubris.


They will all be true.

With a gust of wind the oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest, richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,” she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully. It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges. The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up along the clock is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part in surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take offense.

The goddess smiles and Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the goddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows. Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says, “She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber. Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says, “you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales of their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both happily married.

Gods hate being made to feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins the weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestus says, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at her reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says, not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite as the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.


The contest goes as expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goes red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the death blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.


She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe in defeat, in loss.

It was a terribly long journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke of allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.


It takes seven years for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s a large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as the sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t return to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looks onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skitters down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that a piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him, waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand –

His face slowly fills with a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  She jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his massive hands, “We must find the Mater immediately!”

She jumps down, landing in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that same breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes, that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exact moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, that Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven years.

They’ve told tales of her hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at the web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,” she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in front of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” she returns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stays cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please come with me.”


Arachne weaves a dress for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take you somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at her loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you like me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Of course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at the goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your company equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of her hubris.

“An excellent point,” Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii
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The memory of their touch burns him even now in the cold rain as he slowly makes his way through the market on Hosnian Prime, rain dripping of his hood as he keeps it as low as possible.

Soft summers on Naboo with gentle hands brushing his legs and strong arms wrapped around his shoulders as he relaxed and looked forward to a future that perhaps could be happier then the past he had.

The yellow eyes and Padme’s intrigued expression at the promise Anakin had given her, the curve of her belly, the gentle hands resting on it as Anakin offered her the galaxy to rule with justice and peace as she saw fit.

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and released it slowly as he continued walking. He had not wanted to end up on Hosinan Prime honestly but that was where the smugglers were going, he needed to reach the outer rims and hoped for a transport there. Months on the run from the two who were reaching across planets slowly but steadily.

It was amazing however how no one even gave him two looks after he had shaved his beard and let his hair grow long, no one recognizing him as the famed negotiator despite his poster hanging everywhere.

But not like the other escaped Jedi’s. His did not say wanted, his said missing.


Missing husband of Empress Amidala and Emperor Skywalker.

He tucked his robe more around himself and glanced about warily as uneasy emotions started to permeate the Force. Obi-Wan stopped, eyes flickering around, a familiar sensation crawling up his spine.


He could feel Anakin.

Anakin was on Hosinan Prime.

He barely dodged the blaster before it impacted where he had been standing, screams sending the crowds scattering as he looked around wildly until he saw the clone sniper on the roof. Even from a distance he could see blue on their armor.

The 501.

Anakin’s troops.

He dodged the next blast from a different direction even as troopers appeared in each direction  of the market. Some with blue and some with orange.

The 212.

Obi-Wan was boxed in by his and Anakin’s troopers.

He needed to run, he needed to run no- “Obi-Wan.”

That voice, that impossibly calm and teasing voice. “I believe its time to stop running now Obi-Wan. You’ve lead me on a merry chase but Padme would rather you’d come home now to meet the twins.”

Obi-Wan slowly looked towards the voice, his stomach turning unpleasantly at Anakin’s smiling face and yellow eyes as he kept his own hood low. He didn’t answer and the blond sighed quietly. “Come now Obi-Wan, I don’t want to hurt you but you need to come home now.”

A fine line of exaustion trembled through Obi-Wan and Anakin eyed it with all the concern in the world laid bare. “You’re shivering, really, you are to take care of yourself more husband of ours.”

“I never stood in a church and I never said yes.” Obi-Wan rasped out and Anakin’s brow furrowed at the tone.

“Are you sick Obi-Wan?” He walked towards the man, uncaring of the danger of approaching a cornered Jedi.

Then again, he knew that Obi-Wan would never strike him down, so what did he have to fear. Obi-Wan bowed his head, he had no where to run, Anakin was right there in front of him with both their troopers on each side and stationed on the roof and this time he had no conveniently placed ship that would take him away.

He watched black boots stop in front of him before a gloved hand went under his chin and tipped his head up, Anakin’s other hand pulling the hood back enough to see him.

Surprised yellow and exhausted green meet.

“You shaved.” Anakin rested his hand against a fevered cheek. “And you ARE sick.” The other tisked before placing a firm hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “SLEEP.”

Obi-Wan struggled against the Force suggestion but exhaustion and illness finally caught up on him and he collapsed against the taller mans chest, unaware of the world as he was picked up by the Emperor of the Empire and carried away.


He ignored them at the dinner table, it was easier to ignore them if he just didn’t join them.

Sitting in the window sill and staring at the world outside as they talked softly with each other before Padme rose to her feet and moved to him, placing an elegant hand on his shoulder. “Come eat Obi-Wan, I will not have it said I starve you.”

Gentle words and touches tearing him apart from the inside even as he stood and mutely followed her to the table, settling down to a plate full of what was his favorites. He stared at it for a long time before slowly tucking in, if he didn’t eat they’d just trick him to it later.

When he had woken up after being caught, Obi-Wan had no idea how long had passed there had been three things he had been instantly aware of.

One, he could no longer reach for the Force though he could feel it.

Two, Anakin and Padme were in the room with him.

And three, there was a bandage wrapped around his calf.

He had gotten his explanation for the first one, Anakin and Padme had a tracker and a Force inhibitor surgically placed into him.

To prevent him escaping again.

That had been weeks ago and his voice had become a rarity.

They still brought him to their bed and their touch still burned him but during those moments he could forget the world outside and during that time his voice could be heard as they teased it out of him with slow and loving touches.
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This is weird and I am rusty, BUT 

Anakin Tells Everyone to Suck It, Padme With the Assist ~700 words

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So if, theoretically, I were writing the Death Star AU, the first chapter would look something like this.

fandom: Star Wars

characters: Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor, Bodhi Rook; later, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo; Jyn/Cassian

length: 4900 words (this chapter; God knows what it’ll be eventually)

stuff that happens: Jyn, Cassian, and Bodhi survive, only to face the worst bonus mission ever.

“Jyn, we have to leave now,” Bodhi was shouting.

She wasted no more time, just climbed over the railing, ignoring the twinges in her leg. They were about to be worse, but she could see Cassian near-collapsed over Bodhi. She’d live. Hopefully.

Jyn jumped.

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@snartha appeared on our skype call tonight wearing a wooly grey hood thing and within 3 minutes we’d invented a new OC.

She had been an early prototype.

An unnecessary one, Sauron admitted to himself later, but he’d always been a stickler for perfection and couldn’t bear to set his Great Plan into motion without having done a dry run first. Experimentation was important, he was a scientist, he was an artist, he was a performer –

It made sense to have a dress rehearsal.

She had been no one of importance – a woman of mean birth from the nameless hills, with little power and less an ambition. Her anonymity had been an important control, he had thought at first, though he did realize this made her hardly representative of what was to come. Still, the important factors manifest despite this in the years after Old Nan had curiously slid that ring onto her bony finger.

The long life, for one.

The magnification of her most potent personality traits for another.

(The fact that these were good-naturedness, an almost pathological worry about others catching cold, and a zeal for crochet had made Sauron frown a little at this perversion of his gifts, but still. One couldn’t be choosy with a prototype.)

When she had died at last, or hadn’t, her spirit was fully under his thrall, and he rejoiced, for it meant his plan was to work, and the Nine – gleaming in their leaden honeycomb deep within his forge – would do what he had dreamed of:

Provide him with an army of wraiths; potent slaves; undying, biddable, powerful beings.

The fact that Old Nan hung around was annoying, but unavoidable. She drifted around in her old cowl with the herringbone pattern, embarrassing Khamul by draping a muffler around his neck and chiding the Witch King for going out to pillage the Shire with ‘nary a mitten, for shame!’

The Nine, to Sauron’s surprise, not only tolerated but venerated her, which gave him some pause, even jealousy. Surely he should be the only one his Ringwraiths venerated - but then, respect for one’s forebears was ground deep into the bones of these Wraiths Who Had Been Men, and as such he did not forbid their deference to the Wraith Who Had Been A Grandmother.

Besides, he didn’t know what he’d do without her tri-color, heel stitch, fingerless gloves.  

@greenekangaroo  @urloth
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or:  “Obi-Wan’s Life Gets Worse (Though It’s Not As Bad As It Could’ve Been)” so aptly named by grunklebill

Based on this idea by @obaewankenope

The list goes from what happens earliest in the timeline to what happens last.

Emergency session and a call for a Vote of No-Confidence

Padmé’s POV of the Emergency Session

Anakin reacts to the whole mess

Obi-Wan wants to be alone in his rooms

Young initiates look up Obi-Wan’s records, his friends talk

Obi-Wan finally leaves his rooms

Obi-Wan gets voted in as Chancellor (new: 13 dec 2016)

Obi-Wan gets sworn in

Padmé and Anakin talk to Senator Mandai

Obi-Wan finds out about the Inhibitor Chips inside the Clones

Obi-Wan’s first session in the Senate

The first assassination attempt (warning: descriptions of violence)

The first 10 confederate worlds want to rejoin the Republic

Total word count: 10 830 (as of 13 dec 2016)
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What if there was a possibility that, during the Clone Wars, the Republic could vote Palpatine out and replace him with a Jedi? Like, sort of by a really obscure, little known piece of legislation that technically counts the member of the Jedi Order - especially members of the High Council - as senators.

So Obi-Wan somehow finds himself elected Chancellor of the Republic and refuses to not be a General still. Though he changes the entire set-up of the war, simply because he’s a well-known Jedi to separatist worlds - some of which he’s been to personally before the war - and they trust him personally.

Dooku ends up losing a load of planets because “we know Jedi Kenobi well, he is trustworthy and now that he is Chancellor, we wish to return to the Republic” and has to either admit defeat or attempt an all-out attack on Obi-Wan. Or try and enact Order 66 somehow.

Though, since only the Chancellor ranks higher than the Jedi, and the Chancellor is also a Jedi, that’s pretty much impossible.

Tell me more *chin hands*

Actually, I’m just gonna go for it. Lol. As always, I’m incapable of being brief, even in a directly-into-tumblr-ficlet.

The Senate building is bustling with activity; the Senators are taking their places and talking amongst themselves already. Obi-Wan Kenobi and Mace Windu have been called to represent the Jedi Order.

Honestly. Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure why their presence was demanded. It’s not as if they can cast any votes. To have Jedi in the Senate occasionally certainly isn’t a bad idea, but to demand their presence for a specific Session is rare, if not unprecedented.

Obi-Wan is tired; the war has dragged on for far longer than he would have ever dreamed or hoped. The Jedi hardly take missions outside of leading troops into battles these days, and the fighting and distance from their ideals is taking their toll on the Order and all the Jedi in it. Several Jedi have already left, unable to cope.

Keep reading
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The strain in his shoulders told him his arms had been restrained behind his back though his other injuries seemed blissfully gone. He clearly did remember the clone trooper breaking at least a few ribs but every breath was easy.

The surface under him was soft, softer then anything he had on Tatooine and for a moment all Obi-Wan could do was enjoy the sensation of something clean and soft against him as he kept his eyes closed.

“I know you’re awake.” A calm voice offered and Obi-Wan spasmed in surprise. Yet he didn’t bother to lift his head or even open his eyes.

There was a dip in the bed and then Obi-Wan felt a gloved hand in his hair. “Open your eyes Master.” There was a note of warning in the voice now that told Obi-Wan he better. Yet he did it reluctantly, peering up at the tanned face of his once padawan.

“…Vader.” He offered and winced a bit when the gentle hand in his hand turned into a painful grip.

“Anakin. You call me Anakin Master.” The sith said quietly before letting go. “I should be angry at you, but I find that I’m relieved you are as well as you are despite being malnourished and dehydrated.”

Obi-Wan just quietly watched the yellow eyed man in return. He should have taken care of him instead of fleeing, but he had told Yoda the truth, he couldn’t kill Anakin and so he had fled with a dying Padme.

“I must thank you for watching over my son Obi-Wan.” The words caused the copper haired man’s blood to freeze and he stared at Anakin who had gone back to the light petting. “Though Tatooine was worst place to take him.”

“…Where is he?”

“No where you should concern yourself with.” The blond snorted before smirking. “He’s with Leia, honestly Obi-Wan. Did you think I wouldn’t feel something? I admit, twins were a surprise but…I felt her the moment I landed on Alderaan to…talk to Bail and Breha.” Obi-Wan closed his eyes.

Anakin knew. The kids were now in his hands.

And so was he.

“…What happens now? Am I to be executed?” Obi-Wan asked quietly.

“No.” Anakin’s gloved hand moved, pushing the Jedi onto his back and then moving his human hand to cup the others chin, Obi-Wan opening green eyes to stare up at him in surprise. “You belong to me Obi-Wan. Both you and Padme did. But she’s not here anymore. Only you are. I’m never letting you or the kids go.”

Predatory possessive eyes watched him as greedy lips pressed against Obi-Wan’s, green eyes going wide in surprised shock.
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A TobiMada fill for Prompts #1 and #7 that I had written by the middle of October but never got the chance to type up and post because that’s what happens when your Gandpapa’s Parkinson’s is in actually misdiagnosed hyper-aggressive Stage Four Cancer. Between the hospital visits and funeral arrangements you rarely have time to sit down at your computer for leisure activities, no matter how badly you may wish for the chance to escape for a bit.

Anyway, enjoy it, lovelies. After this shitty ass year we all deserve some nice things. I’m just doing my part.

Better late than never, eh?

@blackkatmagic  @hiruma-musouka

You NEED to read this.
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I won’t lie. I have too much fun with TPM or JA characters meeting Clone Wars Obi-Wan. I’ve got, like, so many variations on that theme. Mainly because Obi-Wan did not deserve that and really still doesn’t believe that he’s the Jedi Order’s finest knight. So, here’s one way that scene would play out in that AU I started a few months ago, but am not currently working on.

It ends kinda abruptly, I know. I completely forgot where I was going with it. Anyway, enjoy.

Keep reading
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Oh, Anon, I love you. This is some master-class trolling here and I love you for it.

Anyway, here’s your drabble! Again, 100 words is tough to do. Hope you like!

Ask me for a drabble prompts


The Twins are unstoppable enforcers of the Emperor’s will, the sun and moon that hang in the black void of his rule. They do not look alike but they fight as one entity, silent and terrible as an eclipse in a spring sky.

They remember nothing before their black cloaks and red sabers until one day two names come to the older one, a memory glimpsed down a sightline of torture and pain. Skywalker… and… Kenobi?

A year passes before he remembers he is Kenobi.

Two more pass in furtive touches and kisses before his lover remembers the name Skywalker.
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For Fandom Bingo square 3-1: Luna Lovegood

Warning: Language because Xanxus

Word Count: 764

Xanxus di Vongola is Not Impressed. Why?

Well. The answer can be summed up in two words: Iemitsu and fuck-up. The fucking idiot trash is living down to Xanxus expectations. It’s incredible just how much one man can Utterly Fail at his job.

It’d be hilarious if the bastard hadn’t dragged Xanxus down with him. Though, saying it like that would imply that the fucking trash were here with Xanxus. He’s not. No, Xanxus is all on his own in fucking Great Britain in the middle of Bumfuck-Nowhere in a village called Fuckery-St. Asshole. Something like that. Fuck, he needs a drink.

Keep reading
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Word Count:  534

Title Credit:  Walt Disney’s Aladdin

Prompt:  Written for mgnemesi – “I. Uhm. Can think of a few things, but it’d like Jason to do the saving, so… Lazarus Pit?“

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